


Wired Stars

by temporalDecay



Series: Tumblr Porn Prompt Fics [3]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Body Horror, M/M, Mind Meld, Psionic Sex, bio technology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-11
Updated: 2013-04-11
Packaged: 2017-12-08 04:10:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/756884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/temporalDecay/pseuds/temporalDecay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For my tumblr porn drive.</p><p><em>Sollux... is compromised. Maybe he's having an especially weird migraine, maybe he forgot and licked some mind honey off his finger, maybe some human food product is having this effect on him, whatever. He's trying VERY hard not to blow stuff up with his eyebeams and is on the verge of losing control, to the point where he can barely speak coherently. Karkat or someone finds him and decides, or presses Sollux to admit, that sex would help to burn off the excess energy <s>safely</s> well <em>more</em> safely at least. Whoever finds him initiates things, and Sollux tries to warn them off, but they won't have any of it, they're willing to take the risk. Desperate therapeutic fucking ensues, with stray psionic energy leaking out here and there and doing things to Sollux' partner. No character death please. Some amount of injury, strangle marks or electrical burns or something, seems inevitable and I'm OK with graphic.</em> -- tatterdemalionamberite</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wired Stars

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tatterdemalionAmberite (amberite)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amberite/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Dismantle Myself for You](https://archiveofourown.org/works/725197) by [temporalDecay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/temporalDecay/pseuds/temporalDecay). 



> A heavily _what if_ scenario, roughly based on the characters from [_A Distrait Life of Mistakes_](http://archiveofourown.org/series/38968), but not part of the series at all.

“You’re being offensively stupid today.” 

You open your eyes – flesh and blood, not metric miles of wire and lenses and circuitry – to find your Ancestor standing before your body. You don’t wonder how he got past security, even though you know precisely how he did it instantaneously, the second you think the question. You know everything, you are everywhere, and your thoughts are finally free from the confines of your own skull. You exist in every electric pulse, comfortably sprawled across planets, stars and solar systems. Every word, every secret, every lie, every life. 

You _are_ the Empire, in the simplest and most complicated definition of it. 

But he still dwarves you without a second thought, just merely by existing. And you hate him and you admire him and you envy him and you wish you knew what you’re supposed to _do_. For all you know – and you know everything – he still remains elusive and out of reach. Close enough you can almost grasp him, _understand_ him, but far away enough you begin to fancy you never will know him like you want to. 

“Do tell,” you hiss, forcing the lips to move as you coil yourself back into the limp limbs even as you dutifully continue to process the sixteen thousand yottabytes that pass through your consciousness every second. You feel yourself splintering as the machinery holding you up begins to lower you with all but the faintest twitch of your mind. “What’s the terribly offensive thing I’ve done today?” 

It takes you a moment to steady yourself, forcing your psionics to hold you up as your body remembers how muscles work. Then the neural ports begin the tedious process of detaching you from the rest of yourself. Delicate mechanical arms, capable of holding a hair without breaking it, reach down and secure each of the two hundred twenty two bioneedles carefully embedded in the neural ports spliced directly into your spine. The arms work efficiently, with precise, careful movements that make almost no sound. He watches the procedure in silence, all fifteen minutes of it. He always watches. You don’t need to read minds to know it’s disgust what tugs at his lips as you step off the platform. He always looks at you like that, like he’s passed judgment and found you wanting. You reroute your powers to your limbs, caging the red-blue lightning under your skin, where it’ll be productive instead of harmful. 

“You know what you’ve done,” he says, voice low and rough, like sandpaper against an open wound. “I could feel it all the way to the _Leviathan_.” 

The psionics keep you warm, energy coursing through your body, while your mind stretches itself across a million different tasks. You consider, very seriously, telling him to fuck off. Your mind is layered and spread out from one corner of the galaxy to the other. If you make a mistake, you fix it before anyone can even realize it. The moment you recognize it as a mistake it ceases to be. But in the past three hours you’ve made more mistakes than in the past thirty sweeps and it _annoys_ you. And the more annoyed you feel, the more mistakes you make. It’s the nature of the mind and the treacherous grip of emotion on it. You’ll never give up your emotions, however, even if you damn well _can_. To suffer grief and love and joy and sorrow and even annoyance is your last line of defense against yourself. You don’t know what you’d become, if you gave them up, but you’re fairly certain it would not be _good_. Most of the time, your emotions run in a subroutine anchored in your main server, coloring your words and your decisions, but mostly letting you work in peace. 

And then, there are times like these, when the subroutine crashes and all attempts to subdue the sprawling mess with firewalls and encrypted pathways do absolutely jackshit. 

Most trolls would call it a migraine. 

You are not most trolls. 

You are consumed by the sudden, burning impulse to shut down the network until your temples stop throbbing, though of course you argue the irrationality of it before the thought can even form. You note, absently, that your temples _are_ throbbing. You raise a hand, thin and weak and coaxed into moving more by psionics than anything else, and press it gently to the side of your face. 

“Shall I call Vantas?” Your Ancestor asks, almost wry. 

You think of Karkat and shortcut communications in sixteen different sectors for less than a millionth of a second. You restore the service before the slow ass protocols could even detect the flaw, feeling the entire left side of your body twitch. 

“Only if you want him to die,” you snort, hunching over and wishing he weren’t in the way so you could go and force some goddamn clothes on your body. 

The fact that you’re naked and in a uniquely miserable position, while he’s composed and dressed only serves to drive home the wedge between you. You hate that wedge. You hate that certainty that you’ll never catch up. That you’ll never be good enough. He judges you like he knows what the fuck is going through your mind, but even if you are genetically identical, _he’s not you_. Most importantly, you’re not him. You’re not a slave; you’ve never been a slave. Every single thing you’ve ever done you chose for yourself and if he’s too fucking petty to realize it, it’s not your fucking problem. 

“Your Empress, then,” he says, tilting his head to the side ever so slightly. The tattoos, on his forehead and his cheeks and his neck, glimmer just a little in the low light. “Your moirail, even.” 

He leans most of his weight on his stupid fucking cane, like he really needs it. 

Like he doesn’t know you can’t turn to them, right now. 

“You never fucking make this easy,” you hiss, stepping forward until you’re less than a breath apart from him, “do you.” 

You are his height, now. The same horns, the same eyes, the same bones. Except he’s still thinner than you, and might forever _be_ thinner than you. The differences between you are purely circumstantial. The differences between you are hideously, terribly obnoxious. 

“You don’t _do_ easy,” he rasps, still leaning on the fucking cane as he raises his free hand to hold the side of your face. 

You lash out, gathering all your power and flinging it at him as you explode in a storm of red and blue lightning. It’s like throwing a pebble at the ocean and expecting it to change the tide. His power opens to you, wide and deep and _rich_. He’s gargantuan, and no matter how you push, in what direction you try to lash out, he encompasses you and your powers and your mind and the stars you’ve skewered with your consciousness. He takes your psionics, frizzled and disorganized, and harmonizes them to his by sheer weight alone. When you were young and naïve and thinking you could do anything behind a keyboard, you went to Karkat when the migraines started. He’d dip his fingers into your nook and sit you in his lap, and fuck you until the sparks on your skin died out. When you installed the first neural port, you told Karkat you’d never have a migraine again, and the utter stupid fool not only believed you, but was disappointed by the loss. 

If he touched you, now, even the innocent way your Ancestor is, you are fairly certain you would vaporize him on the spot. 

You’re too strong and too powerful and too out of control, that the only person you can turn to when this happen is him. Because you couldn’t hurt him, even if you tried. 

“Please,” you say, hating the word and yourself, as you let yourself lean on him fully. “ _Please_.” 

He doesn’t budge an inch, as if you were weightless. 

But a hand comes around your back, long, spidery fingers pressing gently against the curve of your spine. That ocean, red and blue and never-ending, reaches out to lave at your back. Sparks arch down your back, straight into the tiny ports and through them straight into your spine. They’re not the same angry, erratic sparks you’re still releasing from every pore of your skin, however. They’re kind and gentle and soothing. They caress every nerve, making it sing to their song. Your hands come to grab his shirt, claws digging through the cloth even as half-lidded eyes stare into yours. You’re breathing the same air, floating in the same power, but the difference is that he’s in control, and you’re not. Worst of all, as he gives you exactly what you want, he remains unmoved. He plays your nervous system with the ease you play the Imperial Network, plucking at the strings delicately and knowingly. He holds you close, one hand on your face and the other on your back, but he’s utterly indifferent even as you feel light solidify between your legs, pressing up into your drenched nook. 

It’s good, because he knows what he’s doing. You fancy he does to you as he’d like to be done to him, the subtle textures and the unpredictable movements pushing against your inner walls as if there really was something inside you and it new exactly where each cluster of nerve endings is. But he doesn’t care. The ocean never ripples, never darkens. His waves come and go, swaying lazily in the sheer enormity of who he is. Forehead to forehead, you cling and writhe against him, panting and whining and crying out. And he holds you, steady and unrelenting, as the mixture of pleasure applied directly to your nerves and his powers syphoning yours forces you to disconnect, one string of code at the time, from the rest of yourself. 

You’re crying when you come, shoving at him with everything you have even as yellow-gold rains between your legs. 

You shatter, he remains. 

And when you reboot yourself, hastily patching yourself with the most recent backups, he’s still holding you. You don’t look down, because if you do, you’ll see your genetic material splattered all over your feet and his. You look at him, half-lidded eyes, mismatched just like yours. 

“I wish you wouldn’t do that,” you whisper, leaning to rest your forehead on his shoulder and hating yourself for wanting to enjoy the soothing cradle of that ocean. 

He runs a claw down your spine, delicate enough to not upset the ports, then up again as his arms shift enough you cannot even pretend to deny the fact he’s hugging you. 

“I wish you didn’t make it necessary.” 

Eventually, you’ll step back and he’ll let you go, and your power will be your own even if it’s tame and docile from exposure to his. Your head will stop throbbing and you’ll slide on a nice robe and head out to find food. You’ll argue that if you’ve gone through the trouble of unhooking yourself, you might as well do something about it. You’ll see Karkat and Feferi and Terezi, and pretend very hard all of you is contained inside your body, even if they know it’s not true. You’ll laugh and mock and jeer and tease, and no one will be none the wiser. Except for him, and his eyes that see the world the way you do, and his powers that know you better than you know yourself. 

And you’ll hate him and he’ll… not hate you, and you’ll shove the cluster of feelings into the furthest subroutine from your kernel you can find. 

But until then, you continue to process sixteen thousand yottabytes per second and cling to the only troll in the universe that will ever come close to truly understanding you. 

**Author's Note:**

> Title is a not at all subtle reference to the tA's awesome fic, [_Wires and Stars_](http://archiveofourown.org/series/33179).
> 
> ...I am not sorry.


End file.
